Open Eyes
by TwistOfLemon
Summary: He stares at them, and it’s painful and unfair, and... why them? They look back at him. Afraid. Surprised. Hopeless. Dead. Set during Doctor Who S3 finale, so DWS3 and TWS1 spoilers. Warning: angsty!Jack ahead.


Jack wishes he could close their eyes

It's hot, and sort of damp. The air smells of sweat and blood and gunpowder. There's an itch on the back of his neck, and a lump in his throat. The chains are digging sharply into his wrists.

His mind is filled with 'if's. If he'd never hired them, this would never have happened. If he'd only warned them, told them. If he'd trusted them, just that little bit more. If he hadn't been so foolish and desperate and just left them to chase the Doctor…

Jack isn't one to cry, but he does so freely now. After all, the only reason he'd normally hold back tears would be out of shame. And the only ones he cares about thinking him weak are gone, bodies lying in pools of their own blood on the floor by his feet.

He doesn't resist the vomit, barely even thinks about it as it comes up. There's nothing to stop it as it spatters on the floor, adding to the already overwhelming stench.

"Jesus," says the guard to his right. "As if these things weren't bad enough. Do they ever fucking clean up in here?"

"Heat isn't bloody helping." the second guard agrees. "Don't see why we even have to be here. Hardly going to break out, is he?" He laughs, and nudges Jack's cheek casually with his gun's barrel. It's pleasantly cool, but Jack barely notices.

He's still thinking about their eyes. They're all open, and blank; the only trace of life left being their final shock and terror as the bullets hit them, etched forever on their beautifully well-known – yet eerily unfamiliar – faces, all pointed straight at him. He gags again, but it seems there's no more to throw up… he's reliving it…

The handcuffs and the shock and the shouts…

And the Master's arm on his shoulders, and his voice, and his joke, and his lazy infliction…

And them and their resignation, and their tears, and their shock…

And the guns, and the soldiers, and the 'FIRE!'

And their blood, and the life leaving their eyes, and…

And he's throwing up again. So there was more Cold Mash in there, after all.

"What's your fucking problem?" asks a guard. Because that's all he is, that's all they all are. A guard. That one model, a single person distributed among many individuals. One turned wildly cruel with fear, and with that tiny slice of power they have in the Master's world…

The guards seem to be the same, in any case. It makes it very difficult for Jack not to note the definitive qualities of each, even when he's in such a state; with them and their bodies lying below him and their eyes and the bullets… his fault, his fault, his fault, his fault…

This guard has a cockney accent.

Owen had a cockney accent.

Jack closes his own eyes.

_He can hear the accent now. Owen is down in the autopsy room, muttering to himself as he cuts open an extra terrestrial cadaver. He does so casually, yet with utmost skill and precision. It still amazes Jack, even after three years. Every now and then, Owen will yell something out – something sarcastically witty, usually – and it makes Toshiko giggle.  
_

_Toshiko herself is up at the computer, as per every day of her life. She is probably tracking, searching, powering, hacking, emailing, scanning and researching all at once. Her fingers are typing rapidly. Every so often, her right had will stop to take the coffee mug by the keyboard to her mouth. Even when she does this, her left hand continues typing by itself. Despite how busy she is, she keeps an avid part of the conversation.  
_

_Said conversation has now become an argument between Jack himself and Gwen. She is pushing him about something; Jack's lot track of what she's saying, but it doesn't mater – she'll get her way in the end. Her hair is falling into her eyes in her frustration, and a gun is hanging casually from the back pocket of her jeans. She, too, holds a coffee; one that Ianto made her earlier._

_Ianto is in the armoury, just visible through the thick glass wall. He's checking the weaponry. It's one of the many odd jobs to which he was not assigned, and had simply deemed necessary and done. Jack often wonders how they'd ever gotten by without Ianto there to clean up all their shit. But Ianto does so much more than that, and they all know it. He's dressed as usual in a sharp suit._

_Jack stares at them all, pride swelling in his heart. He can't believe…_

A high pitched noise rudely wakes Jack from his daydream, jolting him unpleasantly back to reality. His eyes fly open, and take in all the blood, and it's real – again – and he vomits – again – and the stench intensifies once more.

It was the whistle to signify the end of two guards' shifts, and the beginning of two more.

"What in the name of Christ has happened here?" asks a newcomer. His eyes flick from the bodies to the blood to the sick… and Jack's do too...

And suddenly it's just too fucking much, and he's shouting, or maybe screaming – he could never really tell the difference – and he pull on the chains and he tries in vain to break away and the guards just stare until one of them shoots him in the head.

He's pulled from death quickly, perhaps by the smell of vomit. He wishes he could turn away, but he can't stop looking at them, his team. The blood has seeped from their wounds now to form a communal puddle in the centre. It's become a very dark red, and he can't tell whose blood is whose anymore. He stares at them, and it's painful and unfair, and why them?

They look back at him.

Afraid. Surprised. Hopeless.

Dead.

He wishes he could close their eyes.


End file.
